Chapter Seventeen #2
The ferocity of his words did not fall on deaf ears. Sedley’s face fell. A challenge from the Duke of Caelfall was a challenge indeed. The whole of the ton knew of his fencing prowess.
“No offense meant, old thing,” Sedley said hastily. “I just meant—well, it’s like the Glasshand Gang, isn’t it? If you give them an inch—”
“Do we really have to compare a woman as lovely as Sarah to some miserable gang?” Montague snapped.
There was his temper again, frothing under the surface.
Fortunately, his friend had seen it before, and worse, so did nothing but smile lazily. “You don’t want to hear about my troubles with this gang, do you?”
Montague sighed and drained his glass of port. “Not really, no. I thought you wanted to hear about my troubles? Can they not remain the focus of our conversation for more than five minutes?”
Sedley grinned. “Why should I, when your troubles are all of your own making?”
It was fortunate indeed that Montague did not have his foil with him. The temptation to reach out and tap the idiot with his foil—just to teach the fool a lesson—rushed through him. Montague even found his hand meandering to his side.
Heat blossomed through him, prickles of outrage contracting his chest so tightly it became difficult to breathe. His own making!
Was it his fault his damned leg had been injured? Was it his fault he had recuperated in Oxford with that blasted cane!
Oh. His cane. Montague looked around him for a moment. He had not thought to bring it to London.
And it was not his fault that he had finally received word that he could return to the war effort just as he happened upon Sarah—and he was certainly not to blame for her response!
Montague’s jaw tightened as he considered precisely how he could articulate this to Sedley—who was, he tried to remind himself, a duke, and therefore deserving of respect.
But he was also young. Had never felt things deeply. Had never gone to war.
“I do not see how this situation is my fault—none of this is my fault!” Montague said, bristling with anger. “I d-do not—never have I—when I wanted to—don’t laugh!”
His last two words emerged as a shout.
Sedley flushed and stopped laughing immediately. “I am sorry, old thing, I—dash it all, I meant nothing by it.”
Montague was breathing heavily, desperately trying not to care that he was struggling to get his words out. He had always found difficulty with the written word, yes, but this was the first time he had such frustration with the spoken. What was wrong with him?
“I’m not good with words,” he muttered. “That’s her.”
“Sarah?”
Even hearing her name in the mouth of another felt wrong. Anguish twisted his heart as Montague tried simultaneously to think of her and not to think of her.
Sarah. Her words were always precise and clever. She always knew what to say, certainly what to write. She knew how to craft a sentence, measure an emotion by a number of syllables then pin it on the page with pen and ink.
Montague swallowed. It was most unfair that she wasn’t here to explain it all. Though that would essentially defeat the point.
“You miss her.”
“Of course I miss her!” Montague snapped before he could stop himself. “She is—Sarah is—I will never be whole again without her!”
It pained him to admit such things, but no shame.
That surprised him. He’d never been one for impressive speeches, and sharing one’s thoughts and feelings with one’s friends…
Well. A gentleman just did not do it. That was all there was to it.
So why did it feel such a relief to express even a minuscule amount of what he felt for Sarah?
“But I don’t need you, Montague.”
A nerve throbbed in Montague’s temple. He had spoken in haste, in pain, in shame. But they were words he could not take back. He knew how greatly Sarah valued words.
Why else would she have differentiated, even in the midst of their passion, between need and want?
“I don’t need you, Montague. I want you.”
Montague sighed heavily, dropping his head into his hands. How had he managed to have such a wonderful woman in his arms, in his life, his heart…and then lose her?
“Hell’s bells,” he said, his words muffled. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say! There aren’t words to capture how this feels.”
“If she is good at words,” Sedley said quietly, “what are you good at?”
Montague snorted as he raised his head. “Fighting.”
His friend met his stern gaze steadily. “Yes, I thought you would say that. And what are you fighting now?”
It was a strange question. Montague hesitated before replying. “Fighting? No one. I’ll be fighting the French soon enough, and who knows, maybe—”
“I wasn’t talking about the French,” said Sedley, eyebrow raised. “More port?”
Montague shook his head. If he was going to make it to the Oriental bedchamber, it was best he didn’t imbibe anymore port. Probably.
“I asked you what you were fighting, but I will admit, I think I know the answer.”
Montague frowned. “You do?”
His friend nodded. “Your feelings.”
A roll of the eyes was all the reply Montague gave him. Yes, it was very clever, the sort of thing Sarah might have said. Worst of all, he was probably right.
Montague had never felt so vulnerable, so easily wounded as with Sarah. She was the one person in the world who could truly injure him with what she said. And so he had lashed out, hadn’t he? Before she’d had a moment to explain, what had he said?
“I don’t need you.”
And he’d been the one to flee, to run away to London.
To return to the Council of War, Montague tried to tell himself.
It was no good. He’d been so afraid of Sarah thinking he was a coward, even though she had not said it, he’d done precisely that and acted like one.
He shook his head as he smiled ruefully at his friend. “Christ. When did you become so damned logical?”
Sedley grinned. “When I started trying to hunt down a murderous gang, haven’t you been listening to me? The question is not why I am such a paragon of intellect.”
Montague frowned. “It isn’t?”
His friend sighed heavily. “The question is, now you have realized your own stupidity, and your damned obvious affection for this woman…what are you going to do about it?”